106/365 At my funeral...

At my funeral, no one will sing "On Eagles Wings". Under penalty of severe haunting.

At my funeral, no one will sing "Amazing Grace" either.

At my funeral, if at all possible, I want Psalm 139 instead of Psalm 23: Behind and before you encircle me and rest your hand upon me.

At my funeral, I want people to pause between readings and the psalm. Between the second reading and the Alleluia. Between the gospel and the homily. Between. I want some space between these things.

At my funeral, I want someone to read well. Slowly. Perhaps something from Isaiah 35 or I Corinthians 13 or something cozy from Proverbs or Wisdom. Maybe the Gospel of John. I'm fuzzy on these details--there are many good things I would choose. I just would like it done with a meditative presence.

At my funeral, I want a homilist who won't give pat answers or tell people to rejoice or talk about what a great person I was unless he really knew me.

At my funeral, if someone gives a eulogy, it should be simple and to the point. Thoughtful. Something to ruminate upon.

But at my funeral, under no circumstances is anyone to use the moment as a platform to push his or her political views. Politics are verboten. Don't criticize the government in the homily, the eulogy, the worship aid, the bulletin board at the wake with my photos. Nope. Nada. Don't do it.

111/365 Fakus Ficus

"At my aunt's funeral, I noticed at the church that every other flowering plant on the altar was fake," I tell them at Worship Commission.

"You could tell?" Fr. Miguel asks.

"I went up and looked closely. They just looked too good."

"Almost fake good," he nods.

"Exactly."

112/365 Fine Funeral, Fine Funeral

"How was the funeral?" people kept asking me.

"Oh it was fine. Nice. It was fine," I keep replying. I'm reminded of my father-in-law, quoting the man who used to run the spelling bee down in Cairo. A kid would spell a word and he'd say, "Very fine, very fine. But wrong." Jeff does the timing just right.

That's what the funeral was. Very fine. Very fine. But wrong.

It was lovely. It's a nice church, climate controlled. The funeral choir was spectacular for its genre--no reedy sopranos or heavy organ music. The soloist for Ave Maria was well-practiced. The congregation sang some.

But there were three things that tripped me up. The first is typical of all weddings and funerals where folks who usually don't step forward in church have starring roles: the readings were hurried and there were no pauses between things. Everything was in a rush. This always catches me off guard because our church is so good at silence. And silence seemed most appropriate at my aunt's funeral.

Bigger than that, the priest was in a rush. He knew the family well and obviously had affection for my aunt, but he was one of those young priests who is very impressed with his priesthood. His homily sounded like he ordered it on HomiliesRUs.com and then tweaked to add my aunt's name a couple times. I was about to write him off entirely but he ended with a poem that wasn't half bad. And who knows? Maybe he was in a rush because my mom's cousin told him to speed it along. He was just...the kind of guy who would seem rehearsed in casual conversation and overuse your name in a bad attempt to make you feel comfortable.

But the part that was really jarring, the part that made other things not even worth mentioning, was the eulogy. There were three eulogies. The first was from my aunt's grandson's wife. It was good. Touching. Short. The second was from my aunt's son-in-law, which was well written and from the heart. And her son-in-law is a socially awkward amway salesman so that's saying something. After them, though, her son got up. My mom's cousin, in his mid-sixties. At first he just filled in a life for us--her father dying when she was 19, precluding her college admission. Marriage, kids, family, interests.

And then he mentioned her active role in the pro-life movement. Which is true. She was steadfastly a part of Birthright and other support groups. She called her congressman and senator and the White House and prayed and all that. But then he took a dark turn and used the rest of his time in front of us railing against the current government and how angry my aunt was with the way things were headed "in this country."

Now, my aunt was 93 and an eternal optimist. I don't think I ever saw her angry about anything. Ever. She defended criminals and her crazy (actually crazy) brother and lied about uncomfortable things and over all was the most pollyanna person I've ever met. I can see her saying things like "Well, I hope they realize what they're doing wrong" but nothing stronger than that. Really. But to hear her son tell it, tea-party-esque hatred of the government was the central focus of her life.

Maybe it was. Maybe I let our relationship go more than I thought I did. Maybe she was more honest with other people. But even so. Come on. The eulogy is not the time for self-congratulatory angry upper-middle-class lamentations.

I went to the cemetery afterward and stood next to another elderly relative. "You're still a liberal, right?" I whispered.

"Oh, heavens yes," she exclaimed. And we both shook our heads and sighed.

Very fine. But wrong.

173/365 It will be one of those parish legends

Astrid sits with me at coffee. "The funeral on Wednesday was sad," she says.

"He was, what, 94?" I point out. Sometimes I wonder if I have asperger's syndrome or something like that--not really, but my attitudes about death are obviously out of step on occasion.

"Yeah, but it was sad. They really loved him. His whole family. It was good, but sad. Oh, and Fr. Miguel told a story about visiting him at the nursing home--he wasn't even there very long, I mean, he died pretty quick once he got there."

"I noticed that they were publishing his address in the bulletin and then suddenly he was dead."

"This story, though," she continues. "Miguel was sitting there with him and Joe claps his hands together and says, 'Where are we going now?' Well, Miguel told him he was headed back to the rectory, he had things to do, and then Joe said, 'I'm going to heaven!' And he did."

It catches me off guard, especially after hearing about my Aunt Sarah's last days, the anxiety and fear from a woman who shouldn't have had any worries about her standing with God.

Later when I repeat it to Mike, he says, "Oh, Miguel told that to us at the Stewardship meeting."

It's going to be one of those stories that pass down. I hope, at least. Continuity is important for that sort of thing. But maybe.

256/365 My casserole

The phone rang. It was Sheri, the woman who coordinates funeral meals. She wanted me to bring something Friday. I told her I would. Probably something tomato based, some kind of Italian casserole.

I put it out of my mind until Friday morning. I had to meet with the Presbyterian minister and get kids to school and oh, yeah, the funeral. I glanced in the fridge to see what I could whip together quickly after the meeting, but there really wasn't anything I'd want to serve to strangers. But there was a watermelon.

I cut it open--a yellow watermelon. The last bits of summer on my kitchen counter. I sliced it, thinking of the poem by John Tobias, "Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity" and how John Tobias must never have actually eaten watermelon pickle because watermelon pickle is as much like watermelon as pickled beet is like shredded beet. But the title aside, the stanza came to mind:

It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.
The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

I wondered who had died, whose funeral meal I was helping to prepare with each slice of the knife. I arranged them on a plate, a plate that came with a pie I'd bought at the church barbecue last fall, a plate that could go back into the milieu of dishes and odds and ends in the basement cafeteria kitchen. I drove over to church at the prearranged time and rang the doorbell to the basement hall.

Lynn answered and I handed her the plate. She looked at it a bit funny and I explained, or apologized, that it was so simple, but that I hadn't made the casserole I was going to make.

"They'll appreciate this more," she told me in that backhanded way of hers. And I played into it.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Who wants to eat a casserole I would make?"

"Oh," she said, still with a funny look on her face, "I didn't mean it that way."

"I did," I said as forgiveness.